She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid. ‘Only me name,’ Kimble said apologetically. When she saw Ann Veronica she stood for a moment as if entranced, and then advanced with outstretched hands. After all, this could never be the black sheep. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat.
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